


wait till you’re announced

by Lizzen



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: Angst, F/F, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 07:21:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12228222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizzen/pseuds/Lizzen
Summary: Two celestial bodies orbiting the same sun.





	wait till you’re announced

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dexstarr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dexstarr/gifts).



> A Femslashex_2017 treat for dexstarr  
> A slight remix of my Hannibal Big Bang

_All of eleven years old, Hannibal thought: when Mischa is old enough to wonder, I will show her things. I want nothing but to share in her feeling of discovery._

*  
The first thing they do is fuck. Hard and indefatigable. It’s not what He wants, it’s not what He expects of them. So that’s why they fall into bed; all hands and fingers and lips and tongues. 

Abigail is not new to this. A number of her father’s victims had their soft sweet mouths kissed by a pretty girl who had quick and furtive fingers. How else did she get the exact address, location of the bedroom, and precise description whilst in a nightdress?

Chiyoh is new to this. Her life has been very solitary to date with only one soul in her immediate reach. For so long. She is, however, a quick learner and unafraid of intimacy. 

There’s the negotiation of hands and limbs and positions, and it’s not surprising that both parties win. What, with the specific goal of mutually assured satisfaction. A way of communicating to the other of her abilities, of her strength, of her commitment to seeing things through. 

To leave the other unsatisfied would be rude. And they know what happens to the rude. 

But it doesn’t mean that they’re _kind_. 

There’s fucking, and there’s fucking when you’re touched by Him in some way, some fashion. The rage inside can spill out, adhere itself to the other. And the discovery of each other (the existence, the particulars) fascinates, and oh, what they learn in the brief movement of time. 

You see, they’re both hunters; trained and trained again. And you don’t leave that skill in the woods, let it go dormant. Shy away from it. No, no, it’s part of you, part of how you react to stimulus. How you shoulder your weapon and fire.

On her back, Chiyoh learns how precise Abigail is; the shape and force of her tongue, and the relentlessness of her objective. A tenacious journey that adjusts to the need, and results in Chiyoh losing her head over and over again; too many times for comfort, but why put a stop to it? Why? When there’s no longevity to this relationship, why not let it linger in this moment for as long as she can allow it?

Abigail, alternatively, learns how Chiyoh watches signs hawkishly; keeps her fingers moving even when she raises her hand, says _no, stop, we can stop_. It’s a shock, delicious and unusual, to have a woman driven to drive her into fire and flame. She’s just not accustomed to this; to a partner who matches her blow for blow, touch for touch, climax for --

“He would think us fools,” she says and the other shakes her head. “He would not understand,” is the reply.

Tongue deep in her rival (her peer, her _sister_ ), Abigail doesn’t ease up. Doesn’t make it simple. She’s too good at eating a girl out to allow it; to let this strange woman walk easy knowing that He has another daughter, another protege. It was a shock to find her, and she’s not quite ready to comply, ready to allow Chiyoh to exist without her making a mark, memorable and precise. 

Chiyoh, of course, is plenty pleased to find herself not alone. Find a fellow huntress, and find her eager to take the battle to the bedroom versus the field. There’s nothing sharp and destructive here, not with her sex pressed against this strange woman’s; not with their mouths fighting for dominance briefly before sighs overtake both. 

When the sun lights the horizon, they must stop. Discuss, find a compromise. Before, however, there is only _this_ ; this complex form of communication. 

There’s a touch of teeth behind each kiss and suck; a bite that teases, not threatens. Neither of them have intentionally closed their mouth over flesh and swallowed. Why would they start now? Like this? Against pillows and sheets richer than they independently can afford? With no good reason to do so? No, no. There’s the scrape of tiny bones against skin, but only as a reminder. Of what _she_ could become. 

_Leave that to Will_ , they both think at the same time; a quiet introspection unspoken. 

Each also consider: I could swallow you down, consume fully the heart and the liver and the spirit. Make it all simpler with one body, two souls. A singular shape instead of a mirrored image. Easier this way.

Each also resolve: no, _no_. Better to be many. Four arms, four eyes, two tongues, two minds, two heartbeats in unison. 

It’s an even match in the end. The taste and touch; the push and the pull. And then: 

“He loves you,” she says and the other shakes her head. “I can see why He loves you,” is the reply. And they both smile; a beautiful, shocking thing. 

Later: Bare feet against ancient stone, Chiyoh tends to the tea; black tea from Shizuoka, undoctored by milk or honey. “Tell me,” she says directly. “Tell me what you know about Mischa.”

Abigail freezes. This is a forbidden subject; a name she is not allowed to speak. Her face goes pale and she watches Chiyoh take it in, digest what is unspoken. 

“Look at how he’s caged you,” Chiyoh says, “About your echo.” And then she smiles; soft and sad. "Mischa had deep blue eyes, and when she stared at something she loved, her eyes would draw color from it, darken with it.” Abigail listens, seems to absorb each word like a woman starved. “Has he dressed you in purple?” 

She nods, remembering the color of Chiyoh’s scarf when they met. The ancients considered it the color of nobility as Phoenician purple dye was painstakingly collected from a certain species of predatory sea snails. She assumes he likes her in the color as an elevation of status. She is a welder's daughter no more. 

“Mischa,” Chiyoh says, “Mischa loved dark purple, loved the color aubergine, as long as she lived.”

There are the bones of a dead child near them, rotting in a copper bathtub. Milk teeth in a little pile. 

What they don’t know, what they can only guess: Hannibal loved her. Loved her in a way he could not help.

And now, there are two women, eyes locked. Both elements of strength, stability. The teacup shatters, shatters again and again; and a mirrored place is made for Mischa in the world. 

“Shall we hunt?” she says and the other nods. 

#


End file.
